Side of the Angels
by Kathleen.Anne.Vincent
Summary: Post The Empty Hearse, Pre A Sign of Three. One-shot. Sherlock is approached by a young girl with a case for him to solve, and finds himself rushing to save her life. No slash. TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide. Cover Image courtesy of the BBC.


Sherlock lay in his black leather chair, his head back, his arms flopped out to the sides and his eyes closed. Whether he was asleep or in a state of deep thought, it was hard to tell. The lights in 221B were off and the fireplace was lit, it's warm, orange glow casting heavy black shadows across the detective's sharp features. Outside miserable dark storm clouds blocked out the sun and sky, and thunder rumbled in the distance like an ominous warning.

There was a soft knock at the door. If Sherlock had been thinking rather than trying to calm his racing mind, he would have missed it completely. But still he ignored it.

After a moment a small, female voice spoke to him, "Mr. Holmes? Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am." Sherlock replied, his voice deep and lazy, "What do you want?"

"I need your help, Mr. Holmes. Please."

At this Sherlock opened his eyes and stood up in one swift movement. The girl was indeed a client, as he had guessed. He was more than a little apprehensive of what she was going to proposed to him though, as none of his recent clients had come with mysteries worth leaving the apartment for.

He gestured for the young girl to sit in his chair, and she obliged. Giving her a quick glance over as she sat down, Sherlock observed that the girl was 16, struggling in school both academically and socially, dyed her naturally brown hair black, had a grey tabby cat, spent most of her time on the internet, barely slept (obvious considering the dark circles under her eyes, which she had tried unsuccessfully to cover with foundation), lived with her grandparents, and considered herself Goth. _Or part of that new adolescent movement, 'elmo' or something_. Sherlock thought.

The girl herself had straight, stringy hair with a fringe that covered her dark eyes. She wore black converse boots over faded jeans and an old, loose-knit jumper a couple of sizes too big for her over a plain black singlet. The ends of the jumper's sleeves were stretched to fit over her hands, leaving only her skeletally thin fingers exposed from the knuckles to her black fingernails. As she sat down she dropped her satchel from her shoulder and sat it on the floor at her feet, all the safety pins, buttons and iron-on patches on it catching Sherlock's eye, though he recognized none of the bands they bore graphics of.

Sherlock didn't sit in the chair opposite, but rather stood behind it. He stared at the girl, waiting for her to begin, while she looked around his apartment. Sherlock quickly began to get impatient, "Well, what is your problem?" He urged.

The girl's attention snapped to him, and Sherlock noted her social anxiety from the sudden withdrawal in her body language. He wasn't about to offer any consoling words, however. The girl swallowed and dropped her gaze, then reached down into her satchel and pulled out a small white envelop, offering it to Sherlock.

He walked around the chair and took it from her, and vaguely examined the outside. It was addressed to a 'Cassie Whitfield', the information written on it in a red, flowing handwriting which poorly tried to mimic modern calligraphy. The paper was cheap, and the biro used to write on it had failed in a few places, forcing the sender to re-trace parts twice.

"I received that in the mail a few days ago." The girl, Cassie, said. Sherlock opened the envelope where it had already been torn and tipped the contents onto the palm of his hand; five dried pips.

"I googled what those meant," The girl continued, "and I think… I think that someone is going to hurt me. Even kill me."

"Oh, I don't think you have anything like that to worry about." Sherlock answered. Cassie's brow furrowed and Sherlock went on, "These aren't what you've read about, these are mandarin pips, much easier to come by. Someone, more likely the group of people who torment you at school, obviously went to some pains to scare you, and are probably all laughing about it right now. Case closed, there was no real reason for you to come."

Sherlock had already replaced the pips, turned on his heel and taken a step into the kitchen when Cassie spoke, her voice fragile and soft, "So, wait… you mean… It's not real? It's just the horrible girls at school playing a joke on me?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered, not looking at her, "Now please, leave. I'm a busy man and have wasted enough time today."

Sherlock only stopped when he heard crying. He walked back into the living room to find the girl hunched over with her face buried in her hands, her body shuddering with each sob. Sherlock was caught off-guard; he opened his mouth and closed it again, quite unsure of what to say or do next. Then the girl looked up slightly, "I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, I'm s-so sorry. I didn't mean t-to waste your time. Those horrible, horrible girls have m-made a fool of me a-again!"

Sherlock struggled for words, " Well, um, it's an easy mistake to make, I suppose. It's only a slight narrowing of one end of the pip that-"

"No, Mr. Holmes, please, don't." The girl hastily dried her eyes on her sleeves of her jumper, "I-I'll just go now. I'm sorry for wasting your time."

She gathered her bag and got up, heading for the door. "I could get Mrs Hudson, my land lady, if you wanted to talk-?" Sherlock said as she walked past.

"No, thank you. I'll just go home now. Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock stood and watched as she descended the stairs, her head down, her stringy hair obscuring her face. When she was out of sight, he lifted his chin and adjusted his shirt cuffs under his jacket. He felt somewhat… odd. Almost compassionate, towards the young girl. It reminded him of John somehow. _But John's not here_. He thought bitterly. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to his flat mate's old chair, and a dull, familiar ache surfaced in his chest. But his somber attentions were broken when he heard the front door open and close. _She's no longer my problem_. He thought with (flimsy) finality, and strode back into the kitchen.

He didn't notice Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs or entering the apartment a few moments after. "Yoohoo." She called, gently knocking on the door with a smile.

"In here Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock answered loudly.

She walked around the corner to find him sitting at the table, gazing into his microscope, "Not a new case for you then?" She asked sympathetically.

"No. Simply classmates being… classmates." He answered.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, "Although, she did seem quite upset when she left. I almost thought she was crying, though I couldn't see properly because she had her head down and her hair was all over the place. And wearing all that black too… Young people shouldn't wear so much black. There are so many lovely colors in the world, and black is so depressing. I hope she'll be okay, poor thing."

Sherlock mumbled an agreement before he stopped and looked up from his telescope, realization dawning on his face. "She had scars." He breathed.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson said, looking at him curiously.

He had seen it but not observed; short, thin lines of deliberately scarred tissue across her wrist. When she had leaned down to get her satchel, her jumper had pulled up just slightly and Sherlock had seen the scars. She wasn't just depressed and bullied, she was suicidal.

Then a powerful, familiar voice interrupted; _Help her. _It was the voice of John, his words in Sherlock's mind stern yet kind, _She's in trouble. She's going to do something terrible. Stop her, Sherlock. You have to save her._

Mrs. Hudson jumped as Sherlock sprang to life and darted for the door, grabbing his coat off the hook and bolting down the stairs.

John was right, and the detective wasn't about to disobey his doctor.

-xxxxxxxxxxxxx-

Cassie climbed the cold, concrete staircase with the little strength she forced herself to muster. Tears streamed endlessly down her face, and her hand gripped the railing so tight her knuckles turned white. She felt overwhelmingly desolate.

Finally she reached the top floor. Before her stood a clean red door with a white sign reading 'Exit to Rooftop'. She dropped her satchel from her shoulder with a _thud_ and wrapped her fingers around the cold steel handle. She threw open the door and instantly the crisp, icy air attacked her skin like a bucket of arctic water, and the wet streaks on her face froze dry. She shivered involuntarily, though really she didn't care about the cold. She walked out across the rooftop, her dead gaze set on the horizon. The sky above had grown darker, and the thunder rumbled closer. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Cassie thought the sight was beautiful; a testament to the splendor of nature despite the curse of the concrete jungle that had overcome it.

Her breathing was sharp and shallow as she approached the edge of the rooftop. Her mind was spinning with painful memories; every day of school, every night of hopeless dreams. All the embarrassment, failure and disappointment she had brought on her family, and herself. The annoyance she had become by simply existing as she was. By simply struggling to be herself. _They will be better off without me_. She thought, _They will be sad for my loss for a while, but they will get over it and move on. They will come to realize how much better their lives are without me, and they will be happy. _

The clouds above thundered, and a few fat drops of rain were let fall. Cassie stepped onto the ledge at the far end of the rooftop. Her gaze slowly lowered to the street below, where all the different people walked past and the cars and cabs zoomed up and down. _They all have their lives, they mean something to society. I am not like them. I do not belong here, in their world. _

She lifted her foot from the ledge and let it hover in the open air. She was seven stories up, and no one noticed her. Her tears began afresh, and they trickled the same route down her cheeks as their predecessors. Her chest heaved violently as she let the sadness come. She wouldn't have been able to stop it even if she did want to.

Then something on the street caught her attention; a pale man with dark hair sprinting frantically down the opposite sidewalk. He wore a long, dark blue coat and seemed quite tall and lanky. It took a moment, but suddenly Cassie realized it was Sherlock Holmes. She watched, astounded, as he slowed and came to a stop almost directly opposite her. He seemed a little out of breath and looked up the down the street a few times, but then by some divine reckoning looked up. It took him a few seconds to see her standing on the rooftop, but when he did it was obvious. He stopped trying to catch his breath and froze. Cassie could see his face and he looked genuinely concerned, which quite confused her. They stared at each other a moment, then Sherlock dashed across the street, threw open the door to her building and disappeared inside.

Cassie was rooted to the spot. _Is he… Does he care? _Her mind was now spinning with questions, and somewhere deep inside her a soft, silky bud of hope bloomed. But her consuming despair refused to let it live, and the all-too-familiar sickening misery came over her like a thick shadow of fog, smothering any hope she clung to.

She stood on the edge, panting and trembling with cold, feeling already dead. She didn't know how long she stood there before she heard footfalls echoing up the staircase. Sherlock was taking them two and three at a time, but stopped suddenly when he saw Cassie's satchel sitting by the door. He knelt down and rummaged through it quickly, looking for anything he could use. A photo, a charm, a receipt. Nothing. He growled to himself as he stood up, running his fingers through his hair. _How do you negotiate with a suicidal girl? _He thought. It was John's voice that answered; _With kindness and understanding. _Sherlock nodded to himself, his instinct telling him it was hopeless but his courage telling him to try anyway. He took some deep breaths to steady himself, then calmly walked out onto the roof.

The clouds had gathered like a murder of crows and unleashed their rain. Sherlock flipped up the collar of his coat as he approached Cassie, who already looked soaked to the bone. A vein of lightning flashed through the sky and she suddenly whipped around, "Stay back!" She yelled at him.

Sherlock stopped and raised his hands, "I just want to talk." He answered.

The girl's lips quivered, "No, you don't. Please, don't."

"Yes, I do." Ideas of what John might say chased each other through Sherlock's mind, "You need someone, and I'm here." His calm voice betrayed his pulse, which felt like it was going to burst right out from under his skin.

Cassie turned her back to him, her toes already poking over the edge, "There's nothing you can do, Mr. Holmes, I've made up my mind."

"You're wrong, you haven't made up your mind. If you had, you would have jumped before I got here."

The lightning flashed again. "… You jumped too, didn't you?"

Sherlock's lips narrowed and the corners of his mouth dipped as the memories assaulted his senses; John pleading with him, terrified and determined to talk him down. Telling him how important he was, and how much he meant to him. The quiver of sentiment in his voice, the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes… It was soul-wrenching to remember, even now. But Sherlock pushed it all away and forced himself back to the present, "I had no other choice-"

"Neither do I."

"Yes, you do. You have every choice, but the consequences of your choice will be permanent. Mine was planned, organized, so I didn't really die. My brother was involved, government resources were used and I had to call in an old friend who I never expected to need as much as I did, and that's why I'm standing here now. Standing here, out in the rain, with you, Cassie."

The girl crouched down on the ledge and wrapped her arms around herself, her tears mixing with the rainwater. Behind her back, Sherlock took slow, tentative steps towards her, his hands still raised.

Cassie peered over the edge, "If I jump," she sobbed, "I won't survive."

"Yes," Sherlock answered (internally he was most unimpressed with her lack of grasping the obvious), "And think about the wider effect that will have. The entire world is built up on cause and effect, and your death will likely leave a bigger mark then you realize."

Cassie sniffled, "I will leave this earth. The misery will end, and the people who know me will move on, in time. That's what'll happen."

"No, that's not all. Before they move on, your family will have to pick up the pieces. They will have to try and get used to the empty place at the dinner table, the extra room in the house. They will see something in a store and wonder if you'd like it, then suddenly remember that you're not alive anymore, and it will hurt them. Your life will have become nothing but a bittersweet memory, and they will have to deal with it. Never being able to speak, or even see you ever again. They won't simply get over you, because they've known you, Cassie, and the pain of losing you will never truly fade."

Sherlock was right behind her now, and the girl was bawling incessantly into her hands. A little unsure, he lay his hand gently on her shoulder, and she managed to calm herself just long enough to stammer, "W-what of the g-girls at school?"

"The girls who torment you? Well if you die, nothing. They will not receive any punishment for the pain they've caused you. To them you will simply disappear and they will forget about you, as though you never existed. They will move on. More than likely they will move on to another girl, someone similar to you, and they will do the exact same to her. She may even come to where you are now, and attempt the same thing. The cycle will go on."

They fell silent and the detective's gaze drifted up to the sky as the girl at his feet cried, and the thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm had moved over their heads, and the rain would begin to clear soon. Then Cassie took a few deep breaths and looked up at him, "Help me Mr. Holmes, I don't want to die. Please help me. I'm sorry."

Sherlock fixed his gaze on the young girl's bloodshot eyes, and for a moment they stared at each other. Then he knelt down beside her and brushed her wet, matted hair out of her face, "You haven't done anything wrong. I will help you, and I promise I can find people to help make it better too. I know every road and back-alley of London like it's a crime scene, and I know exactly where to find the best people for you. And you know where to find me personally. I'll always respond to you."

The tiniest, purest smile began to play on Cassie's lips, and she reached over and embraced Sherlock in a tight hug. It made him very uncomfortable, but still he managed to hug back, albeit awkwardly, and eventually she let go. Then he took her hand in his own and pulled her to her feet, wrapping her in his coat and leading her over to the red door, and out onto the street.

-xxxxxxxxxxxxx-

"Sherlock, that's amazing!" John exclaimed.

It was a week later and John had come to see his best friend at 221B. He was sitting in his old, red chair sharing a pot of English Breakfast with Sherlock, as the detective recounted his solo adventured of the past few weeks.

"Well, I don't think so," Sherlock protested, barely faking modesty, "but you-"

"You saved someone's life, Sherlock, that's an amazing thing."

"But you're a doctor, you do that all the time."

"You don't."

Sherlock huffed and grinned at the floor, "Well, I suppose you're right."

"There's just one thing though…"

"Oh?"

"How did you manage to come up with that sentimental speech about family and justice? That kind of emotional thing isn't - isn't really your strong point."

Sherlock's expression changed. John put his teacup back on his saucer and studied him, trying to see through the mask of apathy he had suddenly put up. Then John suddenly realized, "You… you know, don't you? What she was going through, you know."

Sherlock looked up and smiled lewdly at him, "No, of course not John. I just made it all up. Whatever I thought she wanted to hear, I said."

He got up from his seat and walked into the kitchen, mumbling something about possibly having some biscuits somewhere, but John wasn't fooled. Sherlock had definitely been in that kind of dark place before. Bullied, alone, hopeless. Maybe even clinically depressed? John had always suspected that Sherlock had been through some awful stuff with people, Donovan being exhibit A, Sebastian Wilkes as exhibit B, but to have his suspicions reaffirmed like that was still heartbreaking. His thoughts were driven from his mind when Sherlock came back with a small container of biscuits, which he handed to John. The doctor popped the lid off and didn't even flinch at the two human fingers sitting inside. He just sighed and put the container on the table, then turned back to his friend with a new, sympathetic shine to his eye.

END


End file.
